


Trapped in the Dark

by we_are_the_story



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, BAMF Harry Potter, Gen, I Don't even want to question my imagination, Not quite with it Harry Potter, Riddles, Sarcasm, Voldemort was the Nogitsune
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 22:14:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7240591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_are_the_story/pseuds/we_are_the_story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After tracking down a damaged but healing Voldemort for two hundred years, through world after world, he wakes up in a town bursting with Druids, Kitsunes, Hunters and a different kind of Werewolf entirely, rescued by a Beta and the teenage boy the pack has been fighting to save.</p><p>He wakes up in Beacon Hills. </p><p>Harry is sure for a moment that he landed on a world Voldemort has already destroyed, but Voldemort has been playing his games with the lives of innocent children. </p><p>Harry may just be the one person the pack needs to save their friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trapped in the Dark

Harry wakes up under the cover of darkness. There is the dark sky with the stars and the moon and the trees handing over his head, swaying in the gale wind. It howls, the wind, blowing strong and Harry fears, for a fleeting second, that the trees are going to fall on top of his head, but they don’t. They stay strong, steady in the wake of mother nature doing what it does best, causing chaos.

Hands are brought in front of his face, but he doesn’t think they are his. They are not his, they are someone else’s. Who’s are they? Who hands are attached to his arms? What poor soul had their hands cut off, only to be stitched onto someone that doesn’t even have their whole mind intact? Harry clenches his fists, his nails digging too deep into his palms, creating crescent shapes into the soft skin, denting his body to match his mind.

Where is he? He doesn’t know. Is he in the woods behind his house? Is he in the forest somewhere in northern America? Where is he?

He doesn’t know.

Harry laughs, his body convulsing with the force. He throws his arms out and arches his back, showing his chest to the moon, proud to be. . .

Proud to be something. What, he doesn’t know. But in this moment he is free, free of whatever They are protecting him from. Free of the tethers that are holding him to this Earth. Free of everything he ever hated.

Free of himself.

He turns over, rolling into a foetal position, coiling himself from the cold. The dirt is moist on his hands as he digs it up with his fingers. The soil dribbles from the cracks in his fingers, floating. . .

. . .Down. . .

. . .Down. . .

. . .Down. . .

. . .To their home.

Harry frowns. Where is _his_ home? Does he have a home? Is there a place in this tiny planet that he can be safe, where he can just. . .

. . .Be?

He sits up suddenly, and clutches at his head as the forest tilts and twirls around him. His head is throbbing, aching.

A noise. From the left.

He turns.

A man stands there. Is it a man? It doesn’t look like any man Harry’s ever seen. Who is he? Is he like Harry? Lost in a world he doesn’t understand? Lost is a place he doesn’t know the name of? Lost in the face of something. . .Is this man lost?

The man stares at Harry for a long moment, his eyebrows pulled down over his eyes. Is he glaring at Harry? But if he is, then why? Why is this man staring at him for so long?

Harry hugs his legs to his chest and rocks, humming mindlessly, his eyes squeezed tight against the world. Where is here?

There is a shouted word, a name. Whose name? His name? It can’t be. It has one too many vowels. Does that mean Harry’s name has one vowel? What’s his name?

Someone is talking to him, a consistent noise, creeping closer to him, calling out. “What’s your name?” They seem to say. Whose name? Harry’s name?

“Derek, I don’t know if he can hear us,” a voice complains. It’s too quiet in the howling wind for the other man to hear, but the man grunts.

“He can hear us just fine,” he snaps, impatient. “I want to know what he’s doing on Hale territory without permission!”

There is a beat of silence and Harry wonders what they are doing. Are you smiling at each other? Are they pulling funny faces? What about glaring?

“Ohmygawd, fine!” the other man sighs. “Hey, dude? Hey, can you hear me?”

Harry whimpers into his knees. Who are they? Are they here for him? Are they there to take him away? Are they here to bring more darkness? What are they doing here? Why are they here? How are they here? Where is here?

Harry begins crying, his body wracking with the sobs. Why is he crying?

“I’m sorry, please don’t cry!”

Harry hiccups, nobody had ever said sorry to Harry before. He looks up to the man, “Why are you sorry?”

The boy, pale in the moonlight looks relieved, “For making you cry.”

“Nobody has ever said sorry to me,” Harry whispers, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “Why are you?”

“Uh. . .” he boy falters. “Because it’s the nice thing to do?”

Harry stares at the boy, “Why?”

“Because it is?” he says, glancing up at the other man for help. The other man seems just as confused.

“The boy that is and the man that is not. Can’t you see? Can’t you see what it is trying to do? Are you dead? Are you alive? Are you anything on this Earth? Do not let him inside! Do not let him in! Keep him out!” Harry takes a deep breath through his nose and out through his mouth. He turns to squint up at the younger boy, “Where am I?”

The silence is resounding, echoing in the forest around them. The wind continues to howl through the trees, whistling through the branches, catching the leaves and making them fly – WHOOSH! – through the air. Harry smiles at it. He smiles at the forest because it is alive. It is alive. He knows that. He knows that everything in that forest if alive. But is he?

“Am I alive?” Harry whispers, clutching at his hair, tugging it harshly. “Is my heart beating in my chest? Are my lungs working towards cellular respiration? Is there blood flowing through my veins? Is my brain dynamic? Am I alive? Am I alive?! AM I ALIVE?!” He keens into his knees, his hands pulling so hard on his hair it is coming out. “I don’t understand! I don’t understand! I. DON’T. UNDERSTAND!!!”

Harry claws at his face, nails digging in painfully and blood runs in rivers down his face. There is shouting. From where? Everywhere, shouts.

“What are you doing?!”

“Do something, Derek!”

Harry rocks, the skin on his face slicing open on his nails, staining the paleness with red liquid. Is he alive? Is he alive? Is he –

Alive.

That’s what he is.

He is alive. Alive right in this world that is not his. It isn’t his because there are no Wizards. There are no Witches. The wizarding world does not exist. This is not his Earth. But he is alive. He is alive.

He is alive.

His world turns black.

 

)o()o(

 

Harry blinks his eyes open, fluttering against the brightness of the white ceiling. It is too bright. Too bright. Too bright. Too bright!

“He’s awake,” a man’s voice remarks, calmly, from somewhere in the room. But there is no-one else in the room. Who is he talking to? Is he talking to Harry? Why is he talking to Harry?

A door opens, two sets of feet shuffle on wooden floorboards, muffled curses. Why are there people here now? Why are they here?

“What’s the story?” A familiar voice asks, the boy’s voice from before he passed out, curiosity all through it. What story? What’s the story?

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” The first voice prompts.

“But. . .He’s not awake, Deaton,” the boy’s voice points out.

“He can hear every word we are saying,” The first man, Deaton, says again patiently.

“He’s right, you know,” Harry whispers, his eyes half-lidded, fighting against the instinct to close his eyes completely again, so that his eyes are not piercing with pain from the light. “But I’d rather keep my eyes closed on the account that opening them would be like staring right at the sun with nothing covering them.”

“Sorry,” someone mutters and the light dims. Harry opens his eyes now, looking around the group of three people crowded in the small room. It’s not a hospital, of that Harry can tell, because there are no curtains, nor are there crying babies. Trust him, he’s been in hospitals enough times to know exactly what to expect. He also knows his face has healed already, so he might be in a bit of a pickle.

Where he came up with that phrase will forever be a mystery to Harry, but he’s learned to just rolls with the punches now.

Harry sits up slowly, his head spinning, “Well – “

“You’re not a Werewolf,” the one with more beard than stubble, interrupts, his eyes flashing blue.

Harry stares without blinking. After a moment he turns his head to look at Deaton. There are Werewolves? In _this_ town? Are they _serious_?

“No fucking shit, Sherlock,” Harry mutters, as he tries to get off the bench, but sits straight back down on account that the room began lurching under his feet. “I would have completely killed my face if I was.”

“So you remember that,” the lithe, doe eyed boy butts in. “You know, because you were spouting out stories about a boy that is and a man that is not and asking if you were alive. It was kind of weird, because I thought you were an escaped patient from Eichen House and that wouldn’t have been good for your therapy – “

“I’m not crazy,” Harry groans, he mashes his fists into his eyes.

“You? Pshyeah, sure!” the boy laughs loud, clearly disbelieving. Harry levels him with a glare, his eyes narrow dangerously. The boy swallows, avoiding his eyes, “Not crazy, got it.”

“Then why were you trying to scrape your face off?” the beard guy demands, arms crossed.

“Because, at that point in time, I didn’t know if I was alive, okay?” Harry snaps, “I didn’t know where I was, who I was, who any one you were. Hell! I didn’t even know if I was on this Earth. Which I now realise I was. And, to top it all off, I didn’t even know if anything existed at all!”

“But why?” The boy asks.

“I don’t know, okay,” Harry sighs. “It happens sometimes. I go out of my mind. I don’t know why, I don’t know when, but it happens. Sometimes it lasts days, sometimes hours sometimes minutes. Some are just a fleeting feeling of deadness. The cause? Something to do with the fact that I appeared in a hospital with no memories. No family, no friends, nobody looking for me. There was no missing person’s report. So now? Now, I’m just travelling to try and find my way back.”

“To where?”

“Fucked if I know!” Harry snaps, finally done with the conversation.

He jumps down from the bench, sways on unsteady legs for a heartbeat, before stumbling towards the door. Harry’s foot catches on something on the floor, something powdery because it shifts with his movements. He looks down and a line of grey ash circles the table, the ‘Wolves on one side, Harry on the other.

“Okay, what the hell is this?” Harry hisses, glaring around at the pack. “Did you try to. . .what exorcize me or something? I’m not a fucking Demon! I’ve encountered enough – fucking – how dare – “

“It’s mountain ash,” The Alpha deadpans, clearly impatient.

Harry jolts, “Mountain what now?”

“Mountain ash,” Deaton clarifies. “Werewolves cannot get past a joined circle. It was just in case you were a threat to us.”

Harry snorted, “Well, at least that was a straight answer.”

Stopping, Harry finally took a look around the room. Right in the middle of the room, there was a metal table that Harry had been lying on before and there were numerous cupboards lining the walls. Harry sensed herbs, oils and powders within these cupboards. But what were they for? Harry hesitated on his feet before stepping towards the cupboard with the aura of _other._

“What are you doing?” Deaton asked, moving to stop him.

Ignoring him with an outstretched hand, Harry crept closer, crouching so he could look into the lower shelves, he opened the door and is drowning. He’s drowning in the smell of. . .of. . .something, he doesn’t know what. What is it? What is it? Tell him what it is! It smell familiar, like the putrid stench of the inside of the potions classroom he spent so long in.

What is it?

Harry plunges his hands into the cupboard with frantic wrenches, reaching in with shaking hands, pulling everything out and onto the floor. Soon his feet are covered in liquids. “Where is it?” Harry shouts, trying to crawl into the space, stretching his arms as far as they will go. “Where is it? Where is it?”

“What are you looking for?” Deaton demands, slightly less calm then he was before.

“That smell!” Harry yells, reaching blindly, “What is it? It’s familiar, what is it? It smells like. . .like. . . Something that shouldn’t be on this Earth! I don’t understand! I don’t understand! Where?!”

Finally, his fingers skim a bottle and his whole being tingles, right down to his soul, he is reaching further, further, further into the shelf, until his hand grabs hold of the tiny bottle of dull green liquid. Harry stares at it, breathing in the scent of something he knew.

He turns to Deaton, “What’s this?”

Deaton looks back at him with a calculated gaze, “What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know, okay?!” Harry spits, standing up, the glass and liquid and bottle tops moving in the wake of his bare feet. “I don’t know! I don’t know! I DON’T KNOW!” His whole body is shaking, rattling him to the bones. What is happening to him? Why is he suffocating in this room because the air is so thick, he cannot breathe?

Harry drops the bottle and it shatters into thousands of pieces on his feet, embedding into the skin, breaking the layers of his absolute paleness. He drops to the ground, locking his hands behind his head. “What do I know? I don’t know anything. My mind is empty of anything I might have done. My head is a deserted home that will never be occupied. I don’t know! I don’t remember! Who am I? Am I the owl with her deep brown, frizzy hair, with all the knowledge of the world right there at my fingertips? Am I the lion with loyalties like no other, but abandoned his best friend when he needed him most? Am I the moon that can see things that no one else can? Who am I? Am I the old man that paid them all? Am I the little boy in the closet under the stairs, wishing for something, anything to take me away? Am I the little boy with the innocence? AM I THE BOY WHOSE SACRIFICE WAS VIEWED AS A CRIME? AM I THE BOY THAT WAS DYING IN THE ARMS OF DARKNESS!?”

Harry wrenches himself to stand suddenly, his face serene, void of anything that he had said.

“Am I the boy with the lighting scar?” He breathed, his fists clenched at his side. He stood still, so still. So still the ‘Wolves in the room could hear the sound of his heart beating faster and faster and faster, until it stopped. It just stopped and the boy with the lightning scar seized and collapsed onto the broken bottle of Blood-replenishing Potion.

 

)o()o(

 

“Okay. So. What we know is that his man is called John Doe and he has crazy episodes where he keeps asking questions that nobody knows the answer to,” Stiles looked at everyone in turn. “He doesn’t know his own name, he doesn’t know where he’s from, he turned up suddenly in a hospital in New York nearly dead, disappeared from the same hospital three days afterwards, viewed on CCTV camera him walking out all fine and dandy, and he has so many scars but his face wounds healed without any.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Deaton says from his position leaning over the prone figure on Derek’s couch.

“Wow,” Isaac intones from the pillar he’s leaning against. “For a moment there I thought it was something _serious.”_

Stiles snorts into this hand, watching as Deaton checks the man’s pulse for the third time in as many minutes. “I don’t know why you brought him here of all places.”

“Because,” Deaton pulls back the man’s eye lid and flashes a light into the green. “The hospital would probably be confused by the fact that his heat stopped.”

“But if his heart stopped, doesn’t that mean he’s dead?”

“In normal situations, yes,” Deaton says, stepping back from the man. He turns to Derek, “Can you hear the beat?”

Derek nods, “Faintly, but it’s there.”

Deaton makes no sound, just stares with a strange expression on his face. He turns to Stiles, “What. . .year did he appear?”

“That’s the thing, isn’t it? The year it says on the article is 1997 and he looked about sixteen, but he looks exactly the same then as he does now, sixteen years later.”

“Hmm. . .” Deaton starts pacing.

Stiles looks off to the side, brows furrowed, “He mentioned something about being innocent, and locked under the stairs and wanting to be saved, but how could he remember that when he doesn’t know his own name?”

“Yeah, that is pretty weird,” Isaac says, glancing towards the sixteen-actually-thirty-two-year-old man lying, pale as death on the sofa. “Maybe he’s lying about the amnesia. I mean it is possible to control your own heartbeat.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Deaton replies carefully. “His reactions are genuine; of that I am sure. But why does he only remember when he gets into one of his episodes. The question is. . .what happened to him that made him forget?”

“Probably something traumatic,” Stiles says. “You know, on account of the blind panic, the frantic questions and the look in his eyes that just screamed, ‘I’ve been betrayed by those I thought I could trust. Can I trust you?’”

Isaac, Derek, Deaton and the silent Scott in the corner gaze at him with confusion.

“What? It was just a guess, nothing serious!” Stiles protested, hands surrendered.

“It’s a very good guess, Stiles,” Deaton says.

Stiles, smug in this deductions, says, “It was common sense, really.”

The room falls into silence, the only sounds being the echo of Deaton’s shoes on the cement floor and the shuddering breathing of the person on the couch.

They shouldn’t really be here, agonising over the appearance of a random person in the middle of the Hale preserve, screaming question after question after question, babbling about some thing or another, when somewhere in Beacon Hills, the Nogitsune was wreaking havoc. They needed to be out searching for him so he couldn’t kill any more innocent lives.

“We’ve wasted enough time on this, we need to be out looking for the Nogitsune,” Derek’s voice cuts through the silence.

Scott sighs, getting up with some trouble, and glances at Stiles, “You coming with us?”

“Hell, yeah!” Stiles says, jumping up to his feet.

“Who’s going to stay with this guy?” Isaac asks, casting a meaningful glance at said guy.

“I’ll stay with him, of course,” Deaton says. “I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

“Okay, we’ll see you later,” Derek says and starts walking towards the door. Stiles, Scott and Isaac follow close behind.

Deaton looks towards the dead like appearance of the man on the couch, “Now, what do I do about you?”

 

)o()o(

 

There is nothing but darkness. Nothing in the darkness but Harry, with his shivering, pale self and his emerald green eyes, flickering with increasing fever around the room that it not a room, the space that is no space at all, the darkness that is so empty his heart is being sucked in.

Harry looks down at his feet, but sees nothing but that dark, dark void of endless nightmares. He knows he’s standing on something, something solid, something real, but he can’t see it. He knows he has feet, but be can’t see those either. In fact, the hand he knows is now in front of his face is invisible to his eyes, lost in the never-ending dark. Harry licks his quivering lips, coating them with a layer of saliva to moisten them, but that only works for a couple of seconds, so he does it again. And again. And again.

A sound.

To the left.

He does not turn, but his heart is beating in his chest. He feels the veins in his body pumping blood so fast be feels it in his feet. The feet he can’t see.

There is someone there, but not there at the same time.

It is a boy that is and a man that is not, lost in a never-ending cycle of death, destruction, pain and chaos. It feeds on the chaos, on the pain. It’s insatiable hunger, killing so many. Innocence lost, Evil struck and nothing can be done.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he hears a voice. His voice. Steady despite his racing heart. “You may kill and maim and gain pleasure of playing with other people’s lives, but I am not afraid of you.”

“Aren’t you?” The thing breathes, it’s tone mockingly curious. “Or are you just waiting for something?”

Harry turns his head slightly, so he can face the thing, although he can’t see it, “If you could tell me what I’m waiting for, I might be able to answer your question.”

“Are you waiting for a door perhaps?” It says, the hint of a laugh in his throat.

“No, not really,” Harry replies casually, turning back to fact the front. Is this the front? “I’m here to enjoy the view.”

“But you can’t see,” The voice speaks, it’s voice grating. The sound of metal on metal. . .

. . .scrape. . .

. . .scrape. . .

. . .scraping. . .

. . .Fills the dark of the room and he refrains from allowing the shiver that went down his spine to show.

“That’s the whole point, isn’t it?” Harry asks, “Not being able to see, but being able to find my way?”

The thing is silent, the incessant noise of metal overpowering in the silence. It is calculating it’s answer.

“Would you like a door to get out?” It says.

“Yes I would,” Harry replies, fingers twitching at his sides, reading to start defending himself if the thing comes for him. “But that would let you out, too.”

“I see you’ve got it worked out,” it seems to huff at this concept. “But how are you going to help them?”

“Who?” Harry asks.

“The pack of wolves that is trying to help the boy.”

“You mean Stiles?”

“I mean the rest of his little family. Scott, Isaac, Lydia, Allison, Aiden, Ethan, Derek, Melissa, John, Peter, Malia, Kira. . .anyone else I missed?”

“No I think you’ve got all of them,” Harry says.

“Are you still waiting for a door?” it repeats.

Harry rolls his eyes, “Do you have a kink for doors or something? Want me to slam you against it? Something more sinister, perhaps?

“No,” the thing says after a pause. “I don’t.”

“Then why do you keep coming back to the door?” Harry asks, impatient.

“I wanted to ask something,” It says. “When is a door not a door?”

“When it’s a jar,” Harry intones.

The thing laughs and Harry screams.

 

)o()o(

 

The Nogitsune suddenly stops, halting all motion of the Oni. He doesn’t take notice of the wolves overpowering them, just tilts his head in confusion.

There is a presence in Beacon Hills. Something he has only ever come across once in his thousands of years of living. Something he has only come across in the one world he was ever able to take a child’s body and grow with it. Something he was killed with. . .was killed by.

The Nogitsune, ignoring the fact that the Oni he had just taken possession of are being killed by a few defenceless children, he turns his head to the side, eyeing the figures behind him. Turning slowly, so slowly, his face glowering at the short figure being held up by the stupid veterinarian, so weak from who knows what, he takes in the sight of the only person to have ever come close to killing him. Exorcizing doesn’t count as killing him. But this child, this child nearly erased him for good.

“Harry Potter. . .” he drawls, “What an unpleasant surprise.”

The boy, hunched over, raises his eyes to the Nogitsune, so different to what he’d last seen him as. The boy’s piercing green eyes are shining with hatred, but his face reveals nothing. He was always good with poker faces.

“I could say the same thing, Tom Riddle,” Harry replies, his lips curving into a smirk.

“Do not CALL ME THAT!” He snarls. His fists clench at his sides. This boy was always a pain in his arse.

“Why not?” Harry mocks, “It is, after all, the name you went by for soooo looong. Why change it now, Tom? Why change it now?”

The Nogitsune glowers, his muscles tense. The boy leaning on the man is not weak. He is no coward. He plays the game and wins. “I only had that name because they insisted it was what I was to be called. I hated it.”

“They, Tom? You mean your birth parents?” Harry snickered. He straightens, the grey pallor of his skin fading. The boy pushes away the veterinarian, so hard that he falls four meters away. Harry stands tall. “Or do you mean the father that hated you and the mother that didn’t want to stay alive long enough to keep you?”

“Shut up!” The thing wearing Stiles’ body snaps.

Deaton struggles to get up, but is stopped by an invisible wall surrounding the Nogitsune and the man that was previously on the brink of death. He looks around for a line to break but there is nothing. Why can’t he get in?

The Nogitsune notices, “A muggle repellent, Potter? How. . .rudimentary.” It reaches a hand out, intent on snatching the sword just outside the invisible wall, but he can’t. His hand is stopped. He struggles to get to the weapon, but it does not let him. He stops and turns to the boy.

Harry checks his nails, slouching casually, “Oh, I don’t know about rudimentary, Tom, it certainly does the trick of keeping out you. Does that make you a muggle? What a shame if it did, because that body you’re wearing? Whatever it is, you are. Ain’t that fascinating, Tom?”

“Break the wall,” The Nogitsune demands quietly.

“No can do, Tommy, you’ll kill all the people in this general vicinity and we don’t want that,” Harry replies waving a hand at the people standing around with their weapons aimed at the Stiles lookalike.

“Break the wall.”

“Sorry, I can’t do that Tom, you’ll kill everyone.”

“Break the wall!”

“Nope.”

“BREAK THE WALL!”

“I’m not going to break the fucking wall, Tom, so why don’t we get this over with and attack me?”

“BREAK THE WALL!”

“Oh, now,” Harry pouts. “That’s no fun at all.”

The Nogitsune doesn’t move, “Break the damn fucking wall.”

“Are you scared of little ol’ me, Tommy? I guess it was a long time coming, after all I spent seven years absolutely terrified you would eventually kill me some way or another. But you were terrified I would ruin everything you had built. You were terrified I would mess up the pieces on the chessboard,” Harry give the Nogitsune a mocking look. “You were afraid I would _win.”_

“Of course you wouldn’t win,” It said, as if trying to convince itself more than the man across from him. “I had so many back up plans – “

“Ah, now we both know that’s not true. There was no back up plans, were there? You were so convinced you would be able to get rid of me and win the war you had planned the day you could speak again, that you didn’t think about anything else. You didn’t think of how a little boy, barely one thousandth of your age, would grow up to be able to get you so close to death it took you four centuries to be able to move.”

“Do you have any idea how painful that was?” The Nogitsune demanded.

“Of course I do,” Harry smirked. “Why do you think I did it?”

The Nogitsune bellowed and attacked.

 

)o()o(

 

Harry had a brief second to laugh in triumph, before he dissparated just as the outstretched hands skimmed his shirt. The Nogitsune’s arms flew through empty air. Harry reappeared behind it, spinning on his feet, wrenching his wand from his sleeve before pointing it at him. The wood didn’t quiver and the hand remained steady.

“Is this how you imagined it? Is this what you thought it would be like at the end of your line? Is this what you wanted out of your final death? A mere child compared to you, pointing a wooden stick at your borrowed appearance, hand as steady as anything ready for the killing blow? Did you imagine something heroic like reaching old age when this world has turned to dust? Is this what you imagined?”

The Nogitsune spins slowly, until he is staring, dead eyed, at Harry’s calm ones, “I am over a thousand years old, you can’t kill me.”

Harry smirks, “Oh, really?”

He takes a deep breath, “Je vous appelle pour rout ce qui peut entendre. Je demande a tous ceux qui vont ecouter. Aidez-nous, s’il vous plait, nous ne pouvond pas le faire seul. Tendez la main a ce moment et prendre ce qui est mal. Pour ce faire, pour autant que je l’ai fait pour vous.”

The tip of his wand glows white, a stark contrast to the darkness of the night, like a beacon in a cave of nothing but darkness. Harry feels the magic rushing into his feet from the ground. He feels all the magic people are lending him through whatever bond the spell had created. They know what he is doing, they know what they are doing to help him. He feels the magic in his feet, his legs, his torso, his head, his arms, his fingers. Everything tingles. His hair stands on end, reaching for the sky, really no messier than it was before.

For a second, just one, time stops. He sees everything in perfect clarity, he knows everything there is to possibly know about the world. He understands the who, the what, the when, the where, they why, the how. He knows everything. It is it like breathing air when he didn’t realise he was drowning.

And then it is over and the light at the end of his wand explodes, it expands, covering anything that could possibly be covered. The light coats everything, even the Nogitsune copying a teenager’s body is hit.

It bows it’s back, hands spread wide, in fact taking on more light. It screams.

It screams of horror and pain and suffering and agony and hatred and everything Evil.

The light is sucked into its mouth, more and more is vacuumed in.

The thing turns white and disappears.

 

)o()o(

 

Harry sits in his favourite diner, the one he adopted a week after defeating the Nogitsune that possessed the infant Tom Riddle for the most part, then the teenager Stiles Stilinski and before all of that, a man in a Japanese camp. He’s reading one of the many books he borrowed from the library down the street. Something about a murderer with superpowers. You’d think they’d be more creative with the plots of stories after thousands of books of the same story had already been published. But no! They had to continue with the stupid, stupid, stupid –

“Mr Potter?”

Harry looks up from his, frankly boring, book, and is startled to see the Sheriff looking nervous.

“Are you asking if I’m Mr Potter? In which case you would technically not be wrong,” Harry says mildly. “But officially my full name is Hadrian James Potter-Black-Peverell, but I only really knew that after the fragment of the Nogitsune in my mind had left, I got all my memories back and I understood where I was in the world.”

Harry gave a big grin to the Sheriff.

“Right. . .” the Sheriff said, a little weirded out. “Anyway, I came to say thank – “

“Nope.”

“What?” the Sheriff asked, incredibly confused.

“I won’t accept your apology, on account of the fact that I wanted to kill the bastard, it was already in my life when I killed it and you probably would have done it if the positions were reversed.” Harry said absently, while reading his book. It took a lot of will power to keep reading the stupid thing, so why stop now? “I mean, probably.”

“I wanted to say it, whether you accept it or not is not my problem, but,” The Sheriff sighed. “Thank you for saving my son.”

“No problemo, dude,” Harry said slowly, turning the page. “It was my pleasure.”

The Sheriff stood there awkwardly for a couple of seconds before nodding his head and leaving the café.

“Well,” Harry said to himself. “Now we know where Stiles gets his habit of awkward conversation from.”

 

)o()o(

 

What has teeth but doesn’t bite?

 

It was the darkness and the darkness was it.

 

What get wetter the more it dries?

 

The boy that is and the man that is not.

 

What box has no hinges but a golden treasure rests inside?

 

Let me in little pig, let me in, let me in.

 

When is a door not a door?

 

 

 

 

 

When it’s a jar.

 

)o()o(

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second Teen Wolf fan fiction, but my first completed Crossover, so please excuse any incorrect timeline overlapping.  
> The English to French translation was made in Google Translate because I don’t know French and have enough trouble with English to even attempt to learn another language. The Translation:  
> “I am calling to anything that can hear. I am calling to anyone that will listen. Help us, please, we cannot do it alone. Reach out to this moment and take what is Evil. Do this for all I have done for you.”  
> I hope you enjoyed it!  
> Comment if you want.  
> Kudos only if you think the work deserves it.  
> Edit: I keep finding bloody spelling errors. Damn.


End file.
